One Day & Another: A Lyrical Eclogue. Cawein Madison Julius

in star and in flower; a Spirit,

      Love, puts my soul in your power.

      10

He, suddenly and very earnestly:

      Perhaps we lived in the days

      Of the Khalif Haroun er Reshid;

      And loved, as the story says

      Did the Sultan's favorite one

      And the Persian Emperor's son,

      Ali ben Bekkar, he

      Of the Kisra dynasty.

      Do you know the story? – Well,

      You were Haroun's Sultana.

      When night on the palace fell,

      A slave through a secret door, —

      Low-arched on the Tigris' shore, —

      By a hidden winding stair

      Brought me to your bower there.

      Then there was laughter and mirth,

      And feasting and singing together,

      In a chamber of wonderful worth;

      In a chamber vaulted high

      On columns of ivory;

      Its dome, like the irised skies,

      Mooned over with peacock eyes;

      Its curtains and furniture,

      Damask and juniper.

      Ten slave girls – like unto blooms —

      Stand, holding tamarisk torches,

      Silk-clad from the Irak looms;

      Ten handmaidens serve the feast,

      Each girl like a star in the east;

      Ten lutanists, lutes a-tune,

      Wait, each like the Ramadan moon.

      For you in a stuff of Merv

      Blue-clad, unveiled and jewelled,

      No metaphor known may serve:

      Scarved deep with your raven hair,

      The jewels like fireflies there,

      Blossom and moon and star,

      The Lady Shemsennehar.

      The zone that girdles your waist

      Would ransom a Prince and Emeer;

      In your coronet's gold enchased,

      And your bracelet's twisted bar,

      Burn rubies of Istakhar;

      And pearls of the Jamshid race

      Hang looped on your bosom's lace.

      You stand like the letter I;

      Dawn-faced, with eyes that sparkle

      Black stars in a rosy sky;

      Mouth like a cloven peach,

      Sweet with your smiling speech;

      Cheeks that the blood presumes

      To make pomegranate blooms.

      With roses of Rocknabad,

      Hyacinths of Bokhara, —

      Creamily cool and clad

      In gauze, – girls scatter the floor

      From pillar to cedarn door.

      Then a poppy-bloom at each ear,

      Come the dancing girls of Kashmeer.

      Kohl in their eyes, down the room, —

      That opaline casting-bottles

      Have showered with rose perfume, —

      They glitter and drift and swoon

      To the dulcimer's languishing tune;

      In the liquid light like stars,

      And moons and nenuphars.

      Carbuncles, tragacanth-red,

      Smoulder in armlet and anklet;

      Gleaming on breast and on head

      Bangles of coins, that are angled,

      Tinkle; and veils, that are spangled,

      Flutter from coiffure and wrist

      Like a star-bewildered mist.

      Each dancing-girl is a flower

      Of the Tuba from vales of El Liwa. —

      How the bronzen censers glower!

      And scents of ambergris pour

      And myrrh brought of Lahore,

      And musk of Khoten! how good

      Is the scent of the sandal-wood!

      A lutanist smites her lute;

      Sings loves of Mejnoon and Leila —

      Her voice is a houri flute; —

      While the fragrant flambeaux wave

      Barbaric o'er free and slave,

      O'er fabrics and bezels of gems

      And roses in anadems.

      Sherbets in ewers of gold,

      Fruits in salvers carnelian;

      Flagons of grotesque mold,

      Made of a sapphire glass,

      Brimmed with wine of Shiraz;

      Shaddock and melon and grape

      On plate of an antique shape.

      Vases of frosted rose,

      Of limpid alabaster,

      Filled with the mountain snows;

      Goblets of mother-of-pearl,

      One filigree silver-swirl;

      Vessels of gold foamed up

      With spray of spar on the cup.

      Then a slave bursts in with a cry:

      "The eunuchs! the Khalif's eunuchs! —

      With scimitars bared draw nigh!

      Wesif and Afif and he,

      Chief of the hideous three,

      Mesrour! – the Sultan's seen

      'Mid a hundred weapons' sheen!"

      Did we part when we heard this? No!

      It seems that my soul remembers

      How I clasped you and kissed you, so.

      When they came they found us – dead

      On the flowers our blood dyed red;

      Our lips together, and

      The dagger in my hand.

      11

She, musingly:

      How it was I cannot tell,

      For I know not where nor why;

      But perhaps we loved too well

      In some world that does not lie

      East or west of where we dwell,

      And beneath no mortal sky.

      Was it in the golden ages

      Or the iron? – I had heard, —

      In the prophecy of sages, —

      Haply, how had come a bird,

      Underneath whose wing were pages

      Of an unknown lover's word.

      I forget. You may remember

      How